


Recurrence

by paperfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperfeathers/pseuds/paperfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Echoes of worlds and empty spaces. No matter the lifetime, you will always find him.</p><p>Inspired by Tongari's "25 Lives".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recurrence

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Angst and fluff, in equal measure. Temporary character death, (sort of) amnesiac Lucifer. Some underage drinking and injuries. And schmoop. Lots and lots of schmoop.

 

 

Late summer sunlight stains his skin gold, gilding the strands of his hair. It’s warm, too warm. Sweat trickles down your back, on his chest. But you refuse to move from the tangled nest of your limbs. Damp bed-sheets sticking to your skin, but for all the heat he presses himself closer against you. Sucking lazy kisses onto your throat and tracing the muscles of your  back while you gently rub his sides, brushing your fingers lightly against the nape of his neck. Lazy contentment and quiet arousal, summer heat and the warmth of skin. No sound at all but your soft, ragged exhales as the both of you map out every inch of skin you can reach.

He’s the one who breaks the languid silence. A quiet, thoughtful expression on his face as he stares unblinking into yours. Any other person would be unnerved by how long he could maintain eye contact, but you’ve had years of getting used to having all his intense focus trained on you. So you lean down, brush a kiss against his nose. Half-murmuring “What’re you thinking about?” against the shell of his ear.

His voice is soft  against the corner of your mouth. “Have you ever gotten the feeling that all this has happened before?”

“You mean like déjà vu?” You card your fingers through his hair, feeling him shake his head lightly. “No. Not entirely. It’s more like… everything that happened everywhere else was what brought us here. And not just in our lives, either. Ripples. Echoes.” He shrugs, a little helplessly. “It’s hard to explain. But I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

You’re silent for a moment. His eyes are the color of an ocean sealed shut by winter, and just as deep. Deep enough that even he didn’t know what lay at the bottom. Six million years’ worth of pain, as well as the remnants of countless other lifetimes – all of them locked away.

The knowledge of it makes you feel profoundly lonely.

You hear him say your name. He always makes it sound like he’s cradling a treasure in his mouth. That’s one of the things that never changes. It takes you a while to answer, your hands stroking his face, feeling his pulse beneath your fingertips.

“Would you believe it if I told you we were made for each other?”

He blinks once in surprise. Raising his eyebrows slightly, but you can see him lift the corner of his lips.“I fail to see what this has in relation to my question. But as appallingly cheesy as that sounded… Yes, I believe you.”

You smile, tugging him closer. Your breath stirs the coarse strands of his hair.“Then you know that if that’s the case, wherever and whenever, we’ll always find one another?”

He nods slowly, head tucked beneath your chin. His grip on your shoulders tighten. You bury your nose in his hair, inhaling his scent. Thinking of a fallen archangel and a world in flames. Two brothers and their old car. Memories of an old existence buried under several lifetimes.

“We were made for each other, and we will always find our way back to one another. That’s a promise.” You mouth against his skin. In response he lifts his head up. His eyes are soft and open.

“I believe you.”  And you smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Here is where it ends: his hand holding onto yours, as tight as possible without accidentally crushing the bones made fragile with age. His eyes, hard with anger and bleak with grief, burning in his still-young face. You want to kiss it away, pull him close to you and tell him everything will be all right. But you know how he’s always despised lies. So with your last strength, you reach out, cupping his face with your wrinkled palm.

“I love you.” He squeezes hard enough to hurt, opens his mouth to say something. But the world’s blurring around the edges and fading, you can no longer hear, no longer feel the dampness that trickles down your joined hands. The last thing you see is the ice in his blue eyes shattering as you take your last breath.

 

* * *

 

 There’s a hole in his jeans where a bloody scrape’s peering through. His knuckles are grazed from fighting, and bruises decorate his face. You’re sitting beside him on his bed, in his pigsty of a room. Close enough that his arm brushes against yours every time he takes a swig from the stolen bottle of his father’s whiskey. The long line of his throat flexes as he gulps the burning liquid down, and though you try your best you can’t look away.

“Like what you see?” His voice is a whiskey-roughened drawl. He’s fairly tipsy, but not quite drunk. Like this he looks like any run-of-the-mill teenage rebel well on his way to getting well and truly shit-faced. Careless and young in a way he had never been before. It makes you feel so old.

“You look terrible,” you say bluntly, and he laughs, throwing his head back. Bruises and bite marks ring his throat where his shirt collar dips down, and it makes jealousy surge up your chest. Hot, sticky, and sick. You try to quash it. Reminding yourself that you are fourteen and he is sixteen and he’s barely known you for a year. Reminding yourself that things are different now, and the monster in you that revolts at the thought of anyone else touching him - whether in violence or in lust - has no place here.

You grip your hands, trying to keep them from shaking, and him from noticing. But the glint of his eyes tells you he’s seen.

“D’you want to fuck me?” he asks nonchalantly. You grit your teeth, curl your fists, resist the urge to hit him across the face. He’s close, so close. His cool skin brushing against yours. His fingers light and teasing as he touches your arm. Immediately you grab at his hand, twisting it almost to the point of pain.

“Don’t.” You say.  “Just don’t.” His expression doesn’t change, but he nods.”All right,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” Only then do you drop his arm.

The both of you are silent for a long while afterwards. The only sound in the room are his fingernails tapping against his glass bottle. But after around a half hour he breaks the silence, speech slightly slurred. He isn’t totally smashed but he’s getting there.

“You’re a weird one, you know?” he says. You stiffen at that. “You look like you want to kill me most times. Or fuck me. Can’ tell the difference anymore. And sometimes you look like you want to kiss me. But most of the time you act like you know me. Really know me. That’s the weirdest thing. And I don’t know why.”

His fingers loosen on the now-empty bottle and it tips over the side of the bed. By some miracle it doesn’t smash, and he sinks back into his pillows. Eyes heavy with liquor and sleep, but he has just enough energy to grab your wrist, tugging you into bed with him. And you let him. Lying down beside him, face to face. He smells of whiskey and sweat, and his eyes are bloodshot. He leans against you, and it’s pure instinct for you to take him in your arms, remembering too late that things are different here, _he_ is different here. But he doesn’t stiffen, and neither does he push you away.  After a while you hear him mumble hoarsely against your shoulder.  

 “You look like you love me, and I don’t know why.” 

You don’t say another word, and neither does he. But his arms tighten around you, and you relax. A few minutes later he starts snoring lightly. For most of the night you lie awake, listening to the sound of his breathing.

 

* * *

 

 

“There are many worlds.” Chuck’s hands are covered in ink, and he reeks of alcohol, much like he used to back when he was still pretending to be a prophet. But his expression is solemn and calm. “Many universes. This world is basically an echo of another world, which is the echo of another, and another.”  

“So what do you actually _mean_ by all that?” You don’t mean to snap, not to _God_ of all people, but you’re tired. Heartsick. The memory of him fading with every second you spend in this labyrinthine prison. Missing him so much, with no one to confide to. The furious betrayal in your father’s eyes smarts worse when you see it mirrored in Dean’s. Only your mother actually tries to understand. But she was dead for all but six months of your life, and sometimes speaking with her feels like talking to a stranger.

Chuck sighs, but it doesn’t sound frustrated, or annoyed. Only bone-weary and sad. “You can’t be together, not here.” He says quietly. “Not with his fallen state, not with your status as a very dead soul under Heaven’s protection. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be together _elsewhere.”_

Hope - impossible, all-consuming hope- surges up in you. “How?” you ask, and you feel no shame at all when you hear your voice break.

Chuck’s silent for a moment. “I love my son, Sam.” He says at last. “And I want him to find redemption and happiness, however he can. But it’s not going to be easy for either of you. Especially for you.” He pauses, almost as if he’s hesitating. “I’ve already spoken about it to him, earlier. He said he wouldn’t agree to anything until I had your full consent.”

“What do I have to do, then?”  You ask almost fiercely. Chuck merely studies you from where he’s half-buried in ink-blotted manuscripts before his gaze drops down to the whiskey he’s swirling around in his glass.

 “I’m not going to lie, Sam. It’s going to hurt like a bitch, in more ways than one. For you and for him. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how everything’ll work out.” He looks up.  “ Promise me one thing, though. Promise me you’ll always look out for him.”

“You know I will.” It’s quiet, but the finality in your statement makes Chuck smile a little, staring at you with a strange wonder and more than a little pride.

“Humans… You really are unbelievable.” He shakes his head. “Get prepared. I suggest you try to talk to your family, let them know what you’re planning. Then follow me to the Garden.” He gets up, leaving you sitting alone in his sunlit office.

For a few moments you sit, almost giddy with hope and joy. Slowly, you raise a trembling hand to your chest, on the hollow where he used to reside. Half-whispering _I am going to see you again ._ And perhaps you’re only imagining things, but a flare of sudden, answering warmth radiates from your core.

 

* * *

 

 

The acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder fills your lungs, and you choke, trying not to retch. Holding on to where you’re half-dragging, half-carrying his limp weight along streets reduced to rubble. You can hear the shrill retort of gunfire just a-ways ahead, and you try to move faster, praying as hard as you can that no more bombs will fall on this god-forsaken patch of city. Neither of you can afford any more injuries. The war’s lost, and your remaining forces have been soundly routed. You pray that the others have gotten the civilians out in time.

Eventually, you manage to find shelter of sorts, a low concrete building that by some miracle’s still standing. There you lay him out on the dusty floor. Eyes glassy and distant, forehead covered in cold sweat. When he coughs wetly blood dribbles down the corner of his lips, onto his chin.

Hurriedly you unzip the front of his uniform and assess the gunshot wound he’d received a day ago. Blood crusts the bandage you wrapped around his side, but you can see where the fresh crimson liquid’s seeping through. You curse under your breath, panic and dread a dense, heavy weight on your chest. But you force yourself to calm down, to murmur soothing nonsense the way Dean used to do whenever he treated your injuries. Hands shaking as they unwrap the bandages and apply antiseptic onto the stitched-up wound just below his ribs. He convulses in pain, cries out. And this feels so wrong, all of this. You’ve witnessed countless people drowning in their own blood, but never did you imagine that he would be one of them. 

The helplessness you feel is sickening, made worse by the realization that this must have been the exact same way he felt that first time, that first life. You shove that thought brutally away as you re-wrap his injury and zip his uniform back on. Carefully taking him into your arms as he shivers and shivers, blood-flecked spittle staining his uniform and yours as he fights for every breath.

“It’ll be okay. I’ve got you. Everything’s gonna be fine.” His fingers clench around your hand, so tight that you wouldn’t be surprised if your bones shattered under the force of his grip. You can feel his sweat soaking through his clothes, and his teeth are chattering.

“Sam…” You freeze. His eyes are darting around, hazy and unfocused.“ _Sam_. It’s so cold. I’m so _cold_.”

“Lucifer,” you hear yourself say for the first time in centuries. “ _Lucifer._ Look at me, you’re going to be fine.” Cupping his cheek, forcing him to still. You feel like you can drown in the terrified blue of his eyes. “ _You’re going to be fine,_ okay? We’re gonna get up, get out of here, and find a medic. Dammit, Lucifer, _look at me-“_

But even as you call out you can feel him fading. His chest heaves, but he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He coughs once, twice. Blood dripping down his lips, between your fingers as you try to wipe his mouth.

“Sam,” he whispers once more, but this time his eyes are disturbingly clear as he gazes at a spot above your shoulder. You don’t have to turn to know what he’s looking at.

Death looks the same as he always did. Same sallow, ageless face. Same midnight-dark eyes. But instead of his usual black suit he’s wearing standard-issue military gear, and when he looks at the both of you there’s something not unlike compassion on his face.  “Sam. Lucifer. I wish I could say it’s good to see you.”

Lucifer doesn’t answer, only stares at Death mutely. His hands tremble as he grips you with as much strength as he can muster.  In response you tighten your arms around him protectively.

“Not now,” you hear yourself croak. “Not yet. Please. It’s too soon.”

But Death shakes his head. “It’s his time, Sam.”  And you know there’s no  escaping the truth, or the blood-soaked dampness of Lucifer’s weight. It only makes you hold him all the more tightly, as he tries to say with dimming eyes what he no longer has the energy to speak aloud.

A few moments later, you feel his exhale ghost over you as his body sags, lifeless and limp. Your shoulders shake as you slide his eyes shut and press your lips against his forehead.

“You know you’ll see him again.” Death says softly. But you don’t answer. Focusing on breathing in and out, trying to ignore the skin cooling under your palms. After a few moments Death melts back into the shadows, and you are left alone. 

You stay in that building for a long time, mindless of artillery fire and the screams of dying men just beyond. Rocking the empty body in your arms like you would a small child.

 

* * *

 

 

The rules are simple. Both of you would be reborn in the same world and given a lifetime to find one another. Only you carry the burden of memory from your previous lives. “He needs a clean slate,” is what Chuck says by way of explanation. You don’t like it any more than you know he would have. It feels too much like Chuck’s trying to wash his hands of his son’s suffering by scrubbing it from his mind. But part of you is also grateful that the horror of the Cage no longer festers inside him.

It’s only fair, you decide. He spent an upwards of six million years waiting for you in the cold and the dark, and tore out his own grace for a chance to be with you again. It’s only fair that this time you’ll be the one to search for him.

 After some time, you lose count of how many lives you’ve lived. Names, faces, and lives blur into memories blur into dreams. But throughout everything, he remains your lone constant. Your one fixed point in over a hundred universes, in over a thousand lifetimes.

It’s never easy. Never painless. Human existence as a rule is fraught with agony and doubt, its only certainty being Death waiting at the very end. Sometimes you ask yourself why you have to go through this, over and over again. But the alternative -to do without him, to languish in a prison while longing burns you like the grace twined with your soul - is beyond unthinkable.   

So you carry on. You live, finding and fighting your way back to him every time.

 

* * *

 

Outside you can hear the rumble of thunder and watch the rain pouring down in sheets over the grey stretch of the city. Fortunately it’s warm where you are, stranded in his apartment for the night while the storm wreaks havoc on the city’s traffic grid. The scent of dust tickles your nose, and you have to navigate your way carefully around the piles of books and papers covering every flat surface except for the piano in the corner. In spite of the mess, it’s cozy in a cluttered, chaotic way, and you relax, sipping the coffee he’d offered you from a chipped mug. 

Surreptitiously you glance at him from above the rim of your mug. He’s leaning against the window sill, expression slightly distant as he draws music notes and patterns on the lightly misted glass. A memory surfaces, unbidden, of a derelict building in Detroit and a pitchfork drawn on bitter frost. It’s this memory that has you drift towards him, holding out the cup of tea he’d abandoned in favor of staring out the window.

“Your drink’s getting cold,” you say. He accepts the cup with a small nod of thanks, fingers curling around it. The tips of his fingers are stained with ink, you notice. It’s oddly endearing.

“Thanks for letting me stay the night, by the way,” You try to massage the slight stiffness out of your neck with your hand. Blue eyes follow the movement before darting away. He shrugs. “It’s no big deal. If I hadn’t kept you grading papers for two hours, you would’ve been able to go home straight from the university.”

“Hey, you were busy helping your students with their thesis. Anyway, I’m your assistant. It’s your job to make my life miserable enough to motivate me into stealing your position.” You grin at him. He laughs at that, a soft chuckle that has warmth cascading down your shoulders.

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to actually have a shot at it,” he smirks lightly. “The dean may loathe me, but I’ve made myself indispensible enough to cripple the department when he does decide to throw me out.” He raises an eyebrow at you. “For all I know, he could’ve planted you in my office, so he can catch me in a compromising position and have a valid reason for denying me tenure.”

You choke on your coffee mid-sip, feeling the blood rushing into your cheeks as you try to gasp for air. You glare at him and he laughs, the look on his face wickedly teasing. But after a while it softens, turns serious. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but a moment later he turns back to the window, carefully setting aside his cup and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Hey,” you say gently. Blue eyes flicker to you then dart back to the grey mist outside. “You’re doing it again,” he says softly.

“Doing what?” His expression is soft and amused. “You’re staring at me. Again.” The small smile widens to a playful grin when he sees you flush even deeper to the roots. “ It’s quite flattering, especially for someone my age. I wonder what you find so interesting, though?”

You can hear the challenge in his voice clearer than day. But though it’s meant to sound teasing, nonchalant, you can see something straining in his eyes. Struggling against the gaps of missing knowledge, between what he is now and what he used to be, and how you figure in all that.

It breaks your heart, every time.

Belatedly you realize that your silence has gone on for far too long. His expression a neutral mask, he starts to turn away. But before he can, your hand darts out to stop him.

He freezes, the look on his face shifting from startled to bewildered to something quiet and lost. His stubble is rough under your palms, his skin warm. 

It strikes you, how strangely similar this is to what happened in Detroit. The quiet anticipation curled beneath his skin, the tense knot in your stomach tightening with every breath. But instead of the freezing bareness of that building, you’re in a warm, cluttered home. There are no lesions scoring his face and limbs, and his palms and fingers are calloused from playing the violin, rather than handling an angel blade. No demon blood taints your veins, and the Apocalypse no longer hangs above your necks like the point of a sword. In this world he’s no vengeful fallen archangel, but a reservedly sardonic college professor addicted to tea and who has a knack for getting his students to appreciate the intellectual torture he inflicts. Neither are you Sam Winchester. You’re a first-year grad student born and raised by your (still-living) parents in the heart of suburbia, and instead of a fiercely devoted older brother you have a younger sister who has you wrapped around her little finger. Everything is different here, even your names. Sometimes the other life feels like an odd, faint dream. But whenever you speak to each other, whenever you’re alone together, whenever you catch him stealing glances at you - bewildered and intense, as if trying to recall an echo of the past- you feel painfully familiar tenderness and desire well up. And the doubts die.

You think back, to that very first touch. The ashen taste of desperate despair as you forced him to _look_ at you, his face between your hands. Beyond fear, beyond the horror of your longing as you felt the bitter fire of his grace beneath the blistered flesh. Begging him _please. It doesn’t have to end like this._ So much has changed since then, but right now he looks at you the same way. Tense and still and shut-off, but with the barest hint of hope hidden deep in his blue eyes.

His fingers tangle with yours. For a brief second you think you see something fragile flash across his face before he  pushes the emotion down. There’s an unspoken question burning in his eyes, beneath his skin where he holds you as if he’s afraid to let go. You lean down, resting your foreheads together.

Everything is different here. But no matter the life or world, this will never change.

“Yes,” you say simply. His lips against yours are soft and chapped, and he tastes of tea and hope.

 

* * *

 

 

“Is it worth it?” Dean asks gruffly. The Impala’s parked in the middle of an empty highway, nothing but open fields on either side of the road. You lean back on the hood beside Dean, eyes turned upwards. But try as you might, you recognize none of the constellations rising over your brother’s share of heaven.

“What do you mean by that?” You hear the clink of a couple of beer bottles being opened and nod in thanks as Dean hands one to you. He sighs as he takes a swig.

“Just wondering. I mean, it can’t be easy going through the spin cycle over and over again. Know what I’m saying?” Dean’s shrug is almost dismissive, but when he looks at you his eyes are concerned.

You pause for a moment, thinking of life and death and everything between. Lucifer’s mortal skin worn paper-thin , his bones as fragile as glass. The weight of age on both of your shoulders, and as you kissed him goodnight you saw the way he smiled before his eyes slipped shut. He only ever recognizes you when he’s taking his last breaths, but that’s never been the only thing you’re living for. “It’s the furthest thing from easy,” you finally manage to say. “But yeah… It’s worth it.”

You expect your answer to be met by bitter silence at best. You still remember your family’s anger and disappointment after you told them about Chuck’s offer. Seeing it on Dean’s face was even worse than the way Dad punched you before your mother stopped him. But now, your big brother surprises you by looking at you, really looking at you. For once there’s no judgment in his eyes, only slightly resigned acceptance.

“I’d be lying if I said I don’t want to _not_ believe you. Believe me, I wish I stuck Gabriel’s blade in that bastard’s gut when I had the chance. There were times I came really close to it, before. Only thing that stopped me was seeing how much he loved you.”

“Dean…” Dean only shrugs. “When you left that first time, I’m not gonna lie. I wanted to kill you for leaving us like that. Almost as much as Dad. But Mom, she brought me around.” He grins wryly. “Smacked some sense into Dad, too. We’d both forgotten what a firebrand she could be.”

You laugh, in spite of yourself. “How did she manage to do that?” you ask. Dean goes quiet, and for a moment you’re afraid you said the wrong thing. But then he shrugs. “She told me to put myself in your shoes. Try to imagine what it would be like if Cas were the one kicked out of heaven. Didn’t work at first, we actually fought a bit over that one. But she got through to me in the end.” He carefully doesn’t look at you as he takes a gulp of his beer.

“What would you have done, then?” you ask him softly. His answer is immediate. “I would’ve ransacked heaven for a spell to get him back. Screw God, to hell with the other angels. I ripped through Purgatory looking for the guy, d’you honestly think I wouldn’t do the same here?” he shakes his head, hand tight on the beer bottle. “That was when I realized what you’re doing isn’t really that different from everything we’ve done for each other before. And yeah, I still hate that bastard for everything he and his lackeys did to our family. No way in hell I’m forgiving him for getting Mom and Dad killed like that. But he took care of you when I couldn’t, and you need him almost as much as he needs you. Anyhow –“ he grins, that familiar bright pull of muscle you know and miss so well. “-your shagging him _did_ stop the Apocalypse. So I owe him one for those, if nothing else.”  

In the far distance you can see the sky lighten, pink edging over the horizon. The two of you are silent for a long while. But for once there’s nothing stiff or awkward about it, no weight of unsaid words or silent anger marring the early morning quiet. You try to find the words to speak, but only one thing sounds right.

 “Thanks, Dean.” You tell him quietly. Dean shrugs, eases down from Baby’s hood. “Finish up your bottle, Sammy. We got a long drive, and the folks want to see you before you go under again.”

You don’t talk much through the drive down the Axis Mundi, but there’s a lightness between you that you hadn’t felt in ages.  And when you finally reach the Roadhouse,  for the first time in forever, warmth washes over you as you turn the knob and step inside. 

 

* * *

 

There are fireflies dancing around the treetops, and the evening breeze is soft and balmy. The two of you are sitting perched on the roof of his house, shoulder to shoulder, trying your best not to lose your balance and possibly end up with several broken bones). Your hand brushes against his, and he closes his eyes and begins to hum.

“Don’t close your eyes, you might fall.” You scold him. He opens one eye, grins at you before shutting it again. “I’m older than you by a year and a half, so you can’t boss me around.” He says with all the grand superiority of a boy recently turned nine. “Anyway, I know you’ll save me.” You huff a little in exasperation. “What if _I_ push you off?” you say with all the waspish maliciousness of an offended eight-year old.  “You won’t.” He says cheerfully. You glare at him, but before you can sulk his hand reaches for yours and squeezes. With him holding your hand, your surly mood evaporates like a summer rainshower.

The fireflies weaving through the trees blink yellow-green and golden. Like tiny stars drifting through the ether. Their light entrances him, and he looks just about ready to lift off from the roof as he follows them with his eyes. For a split second you think you see the massive arches of six wings spreading from his shoulder-blades. But the next moment he’s an ordinary little boy again, with scraped knees and a stained shirt. All the same, you hold on tighter to his hand.

“Dad says the fireflies light up so they can find their other halves.” He says. “He says there are so any of them that they have to light up in their own special way so that they can recognize each other. He says it’s the same for people, too. But I wonder what happens if you don’t find who you’re looking for?” He shivers a bit. “It must be scary, being all alone like that.”

“They’ll find each other, eventually.” You tell him. He turns to you, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself from grabbing the back of his shirt to keep him from teetering off-balance. “But what if they _don’t_?” He asks. 

“They will.” You say, and it’s now your turn to be certain and solid as steel. “It’s gonna take a while, but no one’s ever alone for good.” He looks at you suspiciously. “Who taught you that? How come you’re sure they’re not lying?”

You smile and squeeze his hand. “You did.” His eyes widen in surprise. “You taught me that I’m not alone, a really, really long time ago.  So you don’t have to be worried or scared, ok? Because I’m always gonna be here for you, and you’re never gonna be alone. Ever again.” He only stares at you, doesn’t say anything. But neither does he let go of your hand.

“Do you believe me?” you ask him. His nods once, before his face splits in a grin. “I believe you.” He says. And you smile.    

 

* * *

 

You’re still lazing in bed thirty minutes after he stumbled out of the room half-dressed to make breakfast. Between the two of you, he’s always been the definite morning person. And while you miss having his arms draped around you, you find that curling into the remnants of his body heat is the next best thing.

You’re drowsily wondering whether the sweet smell wafting from your kitchen means you’ll be having pancakes or waffles in bed when you hear the crash. Alarmed, you jump out of bed and run down the stairs dressed only in your boxers. Heart pounding almost painfully in your chest, and you skid to a halt when you reach the kitchen and find him on his knees on the wooden floor.

There’s the remains of a shattered bowl lying scattered about him, sticking up from the batter smeared and splattered everywhere. He’s shaking, hands clutching his head. It’s only when you get down on your knees in front of him and put your hands on his shoulders that he lifts his head up. His eyes are wide, blue. A flood pouring through cracked ice.

 “Sam?” he whispers.

“… _Lucifer.”_ You breathe. Broken and stunned and disbelieving, your hands on his shoulders tight enough to bruise. Porcelain shards are digging into your knees, but you find yourself not giving two fucks as you pull him flush against your chest. He’s warm, so warm, shaking from the weight of memory. But as you kiss him he responds with the ferocity of a starving man, and you hold onto him as if you’re drowning.  

“You found me,” he says hoarsely, hands tight in your hair, afraid to let go. He’s smiling, he’s crying, but before you can wipe the dampness trickling down his cheeks he’s already tasted the salt of yours. Your heart’s breaking, it’s singing, and as your tears mingle with his you cup his face . Pressing one kiss on his forehead, then another on his mouth before breathing into his ear.

“I promised you I would.”   

 

* * *

 

Here is how it starts. Your hand holding onto his. An endless number of lifetimes stretching before you. Each with its own share of pain and sweetness, its own endless uncertainty. Through them all, the one thing you’re sure of is the hand clasped in yours.

It’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The original WIP of this (posted on my tumblr) had Lucifer as the POV character, until I decided to give the poor guy a break and had Sam be the one chasing after him through multiple lifetimes. This was in many ways an experimental fic, as well as my first full-length story. (meaning it has an actual plot). As such, I'd love to get feedback. Thanks very much for reading, and don't forget to leave a review!


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